Tuesday, 4 February
SECOND CLIENT
There have only been a few occasions where I've been so stunned I didn't know what to do. After all, I'm a professional. But this one was so weird that I decided not to do or say a thing. He came into my flat and didn't want to talk. He immediately startedstripping, then took off my clothes and put on a condom. I think he'd walked in the door with a hard-on. He jumped on me in the missionary position and started frantically pumping away. There was just one thing: his dick wasn't inside me - he was just rubbing it against my groin. I lay there wondering the whole time if he just hadn't noticed or if it was his way of getting off. I thought it best not to ask. He might be offended. Or what if he thought that he was inside me and I was really loose? Who knows? Would you believe he actually came like that? And the strangest thing was that he kept asking, 'Are you enjoying yourself?' 'Mmm, delicious,' I answered. Then he asked, 'Did you come?' I wondered if he was joking . . . But I went along with him and said yes. It's difficult enough for a woman to come with a dick inside her, let alone outside!
I really think it's good when clients get things off their chest with me. There are girls who hate listening to clients' stories. But I think it's an important part of the 'package' for these men. They don't just come here to unload sperm. And they often tell you things they wouldn't confess to their friends or wives. There are some who, when the fright has worn off, are actually quite funny. One guy told me he'd just bought two bricks of mar- ijuana. I gave him a scared look (and I really was). He apologised, but said he just had to tell someone. Another time, the client really wanted me to know he was the 'big shit', a real gangster. The sex went smoothly, however, with no frights. But when I came out of the bathroom, I heard him talking on his mobile. 'No. Make sure he's dead. Because if he isn't, we're going to have to put an end to this.' He used so much slang that I could barely understand him. Staring straight at him, I thought he really did look like a gangster. You know the ones you see on TV, in the news? I started to cry, but without him noticing. I was really frightened.
Other times, the fright is something else . . . I like trying to guess what a guy's dick is like when he arrives. Sometimes I get it right. Especially the ones with small dicks. It's funny, but it seems to be written on their faces. I don't know how to explain it, although I'm right about 90 per cent of the time. But the really well-hung ones are always hard to pick. Some guys turn up and your imagination goes wild. But when the moment of revelation comes, not that it's small, but it's not the monument you thought it was. And there are others who, well, you'd never imagine. But when it's unleashed, surprise surprise! There've been moments when I've thought: It's not going tofit. If it doesn't even fit in my mouth (just the head), imagine inside me. I admit that sometimes size can be frightening. But where there's a will there's a way.
I personally don't care much about the way a guy looks or about size. Of course there are some clients I'd like to have met in other circumstances. Yes, I'd get involved with them: nice men, some handsome, some not. Like all women, I used to dream of my ideal man. Mine had to be faithful. But I've given up looking . . . It's an impossible dream. But I want a companion, who gives me affection and protection - and he'll get it all back too. I want an honest, open relationship. I really don't care about beauty. It's not important to me any more.
Monday, 7 March
FIFTH CLIENT
The client was rude, a real caveman, but he tried to be nice. There was definitely no chemistry, much less affinity. The sex started out smutty, but then became mechanical. Very mechanical. God, he made me sick, especially his tongue, and I swear I almost cried. But I took a deep breath and remembered that this kind of thing comes with theterritory . . . He went down on me, but there was no way I could come, because his tongue was so revolting. He was taking ages to come, so I got around the situation by sucking him off then getting on all fours. He came inside me.
Work isn't always pleasurable. But sometimes we do things we regret. Don't worry, you're hardly going to get a sermon from me. At this stage in my life, the only thing I regret is having done that bloody porno film. In my building there are also several male prostitutes and a few actors. I was always running into them in the lift and they'd say, 'You're pretty. Sure you don't want to give me some pics to take down to the production company?' I heard it so many times that I ended up saying yes. I knew they weren't 'art' films. They called me in, and off I went.
It wasn't good. Not at all. It's all very artificial, rehearsed. You have to stop all the time, the director asks you to stop, shouts 'Cut'. It's hard to make it natural like that. . . You can't look at the camera, because you have to watch the damn director all the time for his signals. When he lifts his hand like this, you have to change position. Like that, you have to moan. Having sex with loads of people around you and paying attention to the director's orders is crazy. It was interesting because at least I foundout what it was like. It wasn't good because I saw that it really wasn't anything like what we imagine . . .
It also wasn't a good experience for other reasons. The pay is very bad. You don't make much at all. It's actually embarrassing to say how much I made, because it really is a pittance. OK: 500 reals. That's because this is Brazil. In the United States it's a profession. They treat you differently.
Everything that has happened in my life - the fame (fleeting, I know), the good and bad things, still frighten me in a way. The other day, I was walking down my street here, in dark sunglasses, when a passer-by came up to me (I actually thought he was going to mug me) and said, 'Excuse me. Forgive me for asking, but are you Bruna, the Surfer Girl?'
'No, I'm not.'
'Ah, sorry then, I was mistaken.'
I was really surprised. I'd never imagined someone would come up to me in the street, recognise me. I was so taken aback that I ended up saying I wasn't me. How silly . . .
On the other hand, I once went with a guy during a swap at a swingers' club, and he turned round afterwards and said, 'You're Bruna, the Surfer Girl, aren't you? I've always wanted to be your client, but now I've had you for free.' I wanted to kill the guy. Seriously.
What most surprises me is that usually people's reactions when they recognise me are neutral, although a few times I've heard sniggering when I go past. But I never know for sure if it was me they were laughing at, me they were talking about. I think it was, but I don't know why. But I'm not going to get neurotic because of the life I live. Or think a guy is flirting with me because he knows who I am. I'm a beautiful woman. I'm not going to think: Ah, he recognised me and that's why he's coming on to me. It's too crazy. I prefer to 'go with the flow'.
Sometimes, after midnight, I go to the building where my parents live. I stand on the pavement for ages. The last time, I went with my boyfriend. We spent half an hour there, drinking, while I watched the film in my head.
I see a girl in a school uniform coming out of the gate, carrying a bag with a few clothes in it. She looks frightened, disorientated, directionless-walking towards the fate she has chosen. I look up and see the windows with the lights out in the flat I once lived in. I remember the pastel-coloured walls of my room, the blinds (no curtains or cuddly toys - I have asthma and hay fever . . .), the Babylândia furniture (I didn't want 'adult' furniture) and the large desk where I used to study and do my homework, and spend hours at my computer or watching TV.
I don't go there hoping to bump into them. I go when I do precisely so I won't see anyone. I'm not ready. Neither are they. How would my father react? And my mother? We've never spoken since. We'll meet again one day, I'm sure, but it will have to be planned. When I give up prostitution, I want to prove to them that I did it, but I stopped. I hope this will make it easier for them to accept me back into their lives.
When I finish my beer, I walk past the front of the building one more time, look around and see that a lot of things have changed. Including me.
I now see that everything I've been through was a phase I had to go thr
ough. No regrets. These three years had to be like this: prostitution, drugs . . . If it weren't like this, far from my parents, I might still be taking antidepressants. As for them, I have no idea . . . Why has it been good? The reasons are many (I always see the good side of things). I've matured as a person, learnt to look after and like myself, and I've learned to get along with all kinds of people, to respect them. I didn't used to respect anyone. If I hadn't been a prostitute, I'd never havelearnt to accept people's differences. I've met all kinds of people, good and bad. The best one was Gabi. For all these reasons, I know I've become less selfish. I actually believe that if I'd been more patient, after a time, if I hadn't left home, my relationship with my parents would have gone back to normal one day. No Bruna, just Raquel. But only Bruna could have reached this conclusion. Raquel never . . .
Last year, I went to visit my grandmother, my mother's mother, who is in a geriatric hospital in Sorocaba. She showed me a photo album. There were no photos of my father in it. But there was one of my mother holding my newborn niece, who, for obvious reasons, I still haven't met. I don't know why, but I decided to borrow the photo and photocopy it. I keep it in my diary. In a way, it brings me closer to my mother - and maternity. I think about my own children (I want two - a boy and a girl, preferably twins). I imagine myself as a liberal mother who's friends with her kids. I'm living proof that locking them up and forbidding them to do things doesn't work. I'm going to let my kids come and go whatever time they want to, as long as I take them and pick them up. My own experiences have shown me where all the world's traps are. I fell into all of them.
Thursday, 21 May
. . . Sometimes I stop to think about what I've done in my life. I know I'll reap what I've sown, or perhaps it's already happening without me knowing. Today I went over my whole past, but I didn't get depressed, I just remembered things with nostalgia and affection. If it weren't for my past, I don't think I would have become the person I am. Not the pro, but the other side of me that few people know. It's so good to remember laughing with my family, holidays, friends from school, everything . . . After ages watching the 'film' of my past in my thoughts, I dried my tears and lifted up my head. I like to cry-it does me good.
BRUNA THE SURFER
GIRLS FORBIDDEN
STORIES
In almost three years in this business, by my count, I think I've had sex with more than 1,000 men. In theory it might not sound like a lot. But in practice . . . And I'm not just talking about the sex itself, but also having to deal with all kinds of men: handsome, ugly, nice-smelling, others less so, calm, hurried, macho, rude, sensitive. I can now say that no fantasy scares me any more, because I've seen and done everything. Some were a little weird, I admit. But I think the most important thing is that people shouldn't be ashamed or afraid to indulge their fantasies - no matter how unusual.
One day I went upstairs with an absolutely normal-looking client. In the bedroom, I'm not sure if I was able to hide my surprise when he said, 'Stick your fist in me.' He wasn't at all embarrassed about asking me to do it. He'd even come prepared. Jesus! I didn't think it would fit. I have a doctor friend who tells stories about the strange things thathappen in the emergency ward, like when guys turn up with all manner of things up their rears ends that they can't get out. Bottles, which create a vacuum and refuse to come out, are the most common.
Well, I worked out that it wasn't impossible. If a long-neck beer bottle could make it in, a hand wasn't that much bigger. I realised the guy was very experienced at this. He took a surgical glove out of his briefcase and asked me to put it on. While he opened the package he said, without batting an eyelid, 'I bet you've never done this before.' Before I could say anything (that the expression on my face wasn't already saying) he went on, 'And I doubt you'll ever do it again. I want you to stick your fist in me.'
'OK, but you'll have to teach me how.'
'Put your fingers in one at a time until they're all in and keep pushing.'
I used a heap of KY . . . It won't go in all at once. I followed his instructions, and everything went in, quite easily, actually.
When my hand was inside him, up to the middle of my wrist, I remembered my doctor friend and was scared the client's anus might swell up until I couldn't get my hand out. Imagine me arriving at the hospital with my hand up the guy's arse! I confess, I was afraid we might make a mess or something. Not my cup of tea. 'Don't worry, I had acolonic lavage before coming here. There won't be any "accidents".' It didn't seem to be hurting him. By the way he was talking, the ease with which I stuck my whole hand in, and his obvious pleasure, I could tell this wasn't his first time.
I spent ages inside him, following his orders. 'A little more to the right, move it around.' I think I was there for more than half an hour, with my whole hand inside him, while he was on all fours on the ground, wanking himself off until he came-which took a long time. We didn't have sex.
In my work, I respect (and indulge) everyone's desires and fantasies, even if I don't accept some of them personally. So if a boyfriend of mine says he has this or that fantasy, I'm going to think he's lost the plot. And it's not going to happen! In my bed, outside of work, sex is liberal, but not that much!
?
I love a bit of a party. Not at swingers' clubs, but here at my place or a client's place. I've already participated in lots . . . One was unforgettable. Guess how many there were. Four? No. Five? No . . . EIGHT. And I was the only girl. It wasn't supposed to be just me. The guys, who were very young, had invited three other girls. It was going to be two dicks each. I was going to be the 'main course', since all of them wanted to spend some time with me. But when the other three arrived, theydidn't like any of them and made me a proposal. 'What if we just have you? You up for it?' I agreed there and then.
I had to use a lot of creativity to handle them all, but luckily I've got a lot of that. It was going to be a first-class gangbang. They decided to go four at a time because lots of guys together would be too gay. It was the first four's turn. Those who know how to count will work out that I managed OK. First, musical cocks: with the four standing around me, I blew one on one side and another on the other, while I gave the other two hand jobs. Each one got a blow and hand job, in this order. But in gangbangs there's no such thing as organisation, queues, turn-taking.
Since the four of them were raring to go, the first one lay on his back and I rode him without letting go of the other three: one in each hand and the other in my mouth. Then the real merry-go-round began. We tried a variety of DPs, then as each one came he'd leave the room and call in the next one, who'd enter the fray, always starting with a blow and a hand job. Lucky for those who took a long time to come - or recovered quickly enough to go for another round. I came several times without much 'inner effort'. I took them down one at a time, all those stiff dicks. I don't even know how many rounds we did in the end. But the best part of allwas that this was my most lucrative shag ever-eight at a time, and the money all to myself.
~
Some time ago, a client got pretty rough with me and I was a little shaken. What consoled me was knowing that the guy, who was already getting on in years, had never been married. I concluded that I wasn't the first - nor would I be the last - woman he'd treated badly. After he'd gone, I recorded his number on my mobile so I could avoid him in future. Time passed and every now and then he'd call me, but I didn't pick up.
Then one day he called me from a different number and gave me another name. As I didn't recognise his voice, I scheduled him in. I got a fright when I opened the door, and didn't know what to do. He came in, grabbed me and shoved me on to the sofa. At the time, I thought about everything except the money I'd be making. We went up to the bedroom, where he pushed me roughly on to the bed and started taking my clothes off . . . His sweaty hands on my body made me sick. He didn't even look like a man, but an animal. If I weren't a working girl, I'd have felt like a rape victim. But since I was, I just felt like shit.
I told him tha
t if he kept being rough I'd have to stop. But he didn't even hear me. Either that or he pretended not to. I knew he'd be even more of apain if I told him to leave, so I decided to keep going. I got on all fours and he rammed himself into me. It hurt a lot because I was drier than the Sahara desert and he was really hammering me as if I was an inflatable doll. Then he took his dick out of my pussy and stuck it in my arsehole. This hurt even more because it was also dry. I managed to reach the KY Jelly on the bedside table and wiped some on myself. He didn't like the fact that I was using KY, as if he was actually capable of getting a woman wet.
I stayed on all fours and he just didn't come. Each second felt like an eternity . . . I tried to keep it together, but I wasn't able to and started to cry. I'm not sure if I was crying with rage, hatred, pain or disgust. I think it was everything . . . Then I decided to stop, because I knew it wouldn't make any difference and might even make the situation worse. I tried to be strong and keep my anger under control.
I didn't make the slightest effort to pretend I was enjoying it. Why waste my breath on fake moans? I wanted him to know the truth - that I hated being there with him. Then he turned me over for the missionary position. My body was so limp I really did feel like a plastic doll . . . He stayed there on top of me for ages. At this stage in the game, knowing his time was almost up, all Icould think about was the money. 'It's almost over,' I repeated mentally.
I don't know what went through his head. All I know is that my eyes were closed and he was still on top of me, when I felt him slap me across the face. I got a fright. I was even more frightened because I'd been caught by surprise. When he hit me the second time, I asked him to stop . . . Just as well he stopped after that, because I don't know what I might have done . . .
The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Page 9